The Cutting Room Floor

[Robert Rosequill]

So, I know I'm itching for some apps to read, so I guess I'll help the board pass the time and share an app I wrote back in January as a bit of a warm up for the new contest. The only thing I knew was "Gladiator combat", so I made up a . . . kind of gladiator. Feel free to comment, critique, or even share some writing you all decided against submitting for whatever reason.





?Yer up next, Jorah!? A guard barked. ?On yer paws, look alive!?

Jorah gripped his great sword?s hilt tightly, rising steadily to his footpaws. He could feel the stares of the nearby vermin burn into him, in what he knew to be a mix of fear and admiration.  The marten didn?t eye them back.  He strode towards the entrance of the dark cell, dragging his sword across the stone floor as he went. The fox in the doorway rolled his eyes.

?Any day now, Jorah. The crowd can?t see you in here.?

Jorah slowed his pace.

?Right. You two,? the fox said, motioning for the guards. ?Make sure he gets to the arena at a reasonable hour.? The guards nodded, and the fox left the cell, mumbling something unimportant. The guards grunted at Jorah. Jorah grunted back. They let him pass.

After several minutes, Jorah finally reached the Archway, where the Arena lay just beyond. The archway was sculpted in the same stone as Jorah?s prison cell, though here it was darker. Jorah knew why. He knew it was dark with the blood of the many who fell before him. He knew it was dark with the tears of those who were not prepared. He knew it was dark because his shadow haunted these stones, and Jorah was here to darken them once more. The fox was here too.

?Glad you could make it,? the fox muttered, brushing dirt off his tunic. ?Your opponent has already been introduced. Your cue should be any moment now, you might as well go on ahead.?

Jorah snorted. He pushed aside the fox, and walked through The Archway. To the Arena.
Jorah could hear the screams. The cheering males. The crying females. The awestruck kits. The announcer . . . Jorah?s muse.

?And what beast has got what it?s gonna take to kill The Ripper? The undefeated Ripper, I may have failed to mention? Could it be . . . our very own JORAH the TERRIBLE?!?

Jorah entered The Arena.

First, the sunlight struck his face. It is the only strike that makes Jorah flinch. Second, Jorah saw The Ripper. He was a scrawny stoat, wielding nothing but a knife and a fake grin. A grin that wouldn?t intimidate Jorah.

?Wotcha got there, Jorah?? The Ripper shouted. ?Dat big ol? sword oi heard so much about, eh??

?It is. So few have the honor to quench its thirst for blood.? The Ripper managed a weak laugh.

?Oi ain?t scared o? no sword, and oi ain?t scared o? yours neither.? The stoat lied. The crowd gasped. All eyes locked
on to Jorah. Only one thought was shared: What would Jorah the Undefeated do?

Jorah smiled. He clasped his weapon with only his swordpaw and, with a mighty heave, thrust the iron above his head. The crowd gasped once more. Jorah bellowed, and the fire of Hellgates shot through the marten?s arm, giving him the strength to toss the great blade aside. The Arena screamed its approval.
The Ripper?s knife began to tremble and shake through the air, the stoat unsure of which paw it belonged. The Ripper was rattled to the core. Of course he was.

In his confused terror, The Ripper charged at Jorah. The marten laughed, and stretched out his claws. The stoat leaped, his knife gleaming in the sun. Jorah expertly dodged to the side, rolling on the ground before nimbly springing to his feet. The Ripper managed to recollect himself faster than Jorah had anticipated, and the stoat rushed towards him once more. Rearing back, Jorah balled a fist. As the Ripper flashed his blade, Jorah unleashed his fury, landing a crippling blow to the stoat?s snout.

?Ow!? the stoat shrieked in agony. Jorah was undeterred, and loosed another strike. As the stoat fell to the ground, Jorah struck again. And again. And again. The stoat kicked Jorah?s gut. The shock that the small beast was still alive and kicking stole the wind from Jorah?s chest, forcing the marten to roll away to catch his breath. As he did, he spied his great sword, laying right where he relinquished it to the sands. Jorah rushed to it, and woke it from its slumber. Jorah spun around to meet his foe, when to his shock, The Ripper gored himself onto his sword. Jorah grit his teeth.

?How dare you, stoat!? Jorah cried. ?Taking your own life, simply to rob me the pleasure of killing you myself!?

[Matra Hammer]

Thanks for sharing, Rob. You called this a warmup. What were you thinking about when drafting? What was the goal? Write a gladiator, sure, but I'm interested in your approach and process.

[Robert Rosequill]

I started writing it with the simple idea of a no nonsense gladiator type, who had been in the game for way too long (explaining why he's named after Jorah from Game of Thrones ;)). But then I started describing how he reacted to the beasts around him and his overall attitude towards the arena, and it came off incredibly silly and melodramatic. So I decided to run with it and write a beast who takes himself way too seriously while no one else does and had a blast with it.

I decided against applying with him because while it was a fun gimmick, I didn't think I'd enjoy it for too long and it would be too much work to keep that type of narration going.

[Tooley Bostay]

Fun read, Rob. Thanks for posting it up for us all. =D

There were some tense changes ("It is the only strike that makes Jorah flinch.") and other SPAG oddities throughout, but as a character I thought this was quite good. Excited to see what you ultimately applied with, if this is one of your rejects. And am I correct in assuming that Jorah only has one arm? Can't see anywhere where it's specificalyl stated, but if so, that's a really cool idea--having someone physically hindered having to survive.

[Tooley Bostay]

Two of my submissions didn't make the cut, and now that voting is over, I thought I'd post them here for any interested eyes. Will include some commentary on my thought process and why I think they failed.

Beast Driven by Revenge - Silas Cutwick

(As an aside, I find it hilarious that both Silas' who applied in the contest were Revenge beasts. What are the chances!)

Story:
[spoiler]None noticed the mouse walking within the tent. Not the rat brothers, who rolled dice and twirled knives in a game of Beggar?s Due. Not the wane-furred foxes, who traded tales of glories past. Not any of the beasts gathered in the corner, who listened to a ferretmaid?s rendition of Twinetail?s Tragedy.

Yet Silas? heart pounded with every step.

?Stand tall, son.?

His nose twitched at the stench of too-old Pinefever Ale. His ears flicked at the slurred laughter. His fur shivered at the splash of muck-slimed seawater beneath his feet.

Still, he moved forward, paw latched around the comforting metal at his side.

?Keep your shoulders squared and your feet ready. Just like that. Good!?

He focused on the end of the tent where a stoat reclined in a dome-shaped wicker chair, posture looking very much like a sack of flour tossed into a cellar corner.

?Be mindful of everything. Never let your guard down.?

Silas shifted his attention to a table that towered over his shoulders, where the largest vermin sat. With a preparatory flick of his tail, Silas hopped between a fox and wildcat, then launched himself off the bench and onto the table. Plates and mugs crashed, shouts exploded, and Silas gripped the hilt of his sword.

?And never let them see the fear in your eyes.?

His father?s sword came free with a clarion cry of metal. Turning the heavy blade over, Silas stabbed it down into the table with a crack that shuddered through the tent.

?I?m looking for a murderer!? Silas shouted in the following silence.

No one spoke immediately. Silas could hear his heart throb. And then: laughter. A deep, gut-born laughter coming from the stoat, who doubled over in his wicker chair.

?Lookit the tail on this one! I love it!? the stoat cackled. ?Careful what ya ask for, lad, ya might just get it!?

?A wolverine--Yogar the Brutal!? Silas called out over the laughter. ?Where is he??

The stoat clasped his paws together, regarding Silas as one might scrutinize a piece of art. ?What?d this beast do? Stiff ya outta some candied nuts??

Silas? fingers tensed around the cold metal hilt. ?He killed my father.?

The stoat?s grin faltered momentarily before returning. ?So, you?re gonna give ?im a pinprick straight outta Hellgates with that thing?? A chuckle. ?How old are ya, lad??

Silas frowned at the implication. ?I?ve killed before.?

A smile. ?Not beasts like that.? The stoat reclined back into his chair, fingertips tapping together. ?I know your wolverine. Stopped ?ere last moontide.?

Silas stepped forward. ?He?s still here??

?Oh, he?s long gone. Ship came by soon after he arrived, lookin? for fightin? beasts.? The stoat scowled. ?They had the gall to try and pay me off to give ?em my beasts. Good enough deal for your wolverine, though, and good riddance.? The scowl turned into a pout. ?Blasted giant stole my best keg of ale.?

Silas? brow twitched with emotion. Anger at finding a dead-end. Determination demanding he press forward. Confusion how exactly to do so.

?Look, lad, ya got spirit, but the only reason I ain?t turned this whole place on ya is ?cause I draw the line with kits. That wolverine ain?t got me bleedin? heart, so just get on back to wherever you?re from.?

Suddenly, Silas? ears perked up. ?The ship that came. You said they wanted to pay you for fighters. How much??

The stoat?s brow furrowed. ?Ya don?t get it. These beasts were recruitin? for some sort of? death arena. Ain?t a place for you.?

?How much?? Silas pressed.

The stoat took a long drink from his mug, then stroked his chin. Silas smiled. That much.

??you?re really this serious about it, ain?t ya??

?I?m going to find Yogar, whether you want to help me or not.?

The stoat?s whiskers twitched. ?Th? beasts you?re lookin? for said they?d be back by summer?s end. Could be weeks, could be a day. Stick around, an? don?t try cheatin? me on our liddle deal. I got ears an? eyes an? tails all o?er this port.?

Victory coursed through Silas? body. Closer. One step closer to his father?s murderer. He reached for his sword.

?But lad, ya know ya can?t kill a wolverine, right?? the stoat asked. ?Some beasts are just? invincible.?

Silas? paw wavered just above the hilt.

?But you?ll always be there, won?t you??

?Of course, son. Always.?

Silas ripped the blade free and stepped down from the table. ?No one is invincible.?[/spoiler]

Positives: I liked the little touches I tried to add throughout the piece. Beggar's Due and Twinetail's Tragedy rather than just saying "the beast sang an adjective song." I also like the inevitable conflict for Silas--he's killed vermin/"bad" beasts before, but while he is certainly willing to fight in an arena, I don't think he quite understands that he won't just be fighting Yogar/vermin. That shock of reality would sting him deeply, and press hard against his forward motivation.

Flaws: Lacks an intriguing twist. It's "son seeks vengeance for his father" with absolutely nothing more to say for itself. It's just an incredibly safe application. Needed to show how Silas is unique, rather than him only being about his quest. On the one hand, that was to be part of his character arc - learning that he shouldn't be so driven by hatred and vengeance - but as a bite-sized app? Needed more. ...which, actually, it did, once upon a time. Which brings me to...

Initial Draft: The finished scene above is not at all where I started writing this. Initially I had him bring along his timid badger friend to scare off any prospective vermin ne'er-do-wells. He's so driven by his quest for vengeance that he ends up telling his friend off once he no longer "needs" the badger. Starts to approach things from a utilitarian perspective, in a way. Think this added a lot to Silas' character, but I was 500 words in and Silas hadn't even met the stoat yet, so I cut the scene. Bad choice, I think, as it was the sort of spin and color that he needed to stand out, methinks.

So in rough - and progressively messier - detail, here was my initial draft:
[spoiler]?I don?t like this, Silas.?

Silas ignored the muttered comment from behind, hitched his paws tighter around his pack?s hempen straps, and stomped onto the cobblestone pathway leading into Port Daskim.

The stares, as he suspected, came quickly. A foxmaid tilted her snout up as she passed him, as if to assert her already considerable height advantage. A trio of searats swung sneers his way, biting off a collection of curses already old to Silas? ears. A stoat ? or perhaps it was a weasel. Silas could never tell with mustelids ? leaned against the decaying frame of a wagon, paw caressing the hilt of a rusty dagger.

?Stand tall. Square your shoulders. Be mindful of yourself. Never let them see the fear in your eyes.?

Silas drew in a sharp breath, straightened his posture, forced his thin mouse tail to stop flicking, and rested a paw upon the bronze pommel of Wellwisher at his side. He walked past the watching beasts, past the rain-rotted shacks, past the green-tinted shore, past the muck-slimed docks, until he saw a tent. It stood wide and circular with a canvas of stark red draped across it, looking like an open wound on the edge of the port.

?We shouldn?t have come here.?

Silas ignored the voice behind him once more.

?We can still stop.?

Silas made his way up the incline towards the tent.

?Silas, listen to me!?

A paw wrapped completely around his upper arm and spun him around. Silas glared up into the striped, black and white face of his friend Rauno.

?I-I?m sorry, I just?? The badger let go and stepped back, settling into the hunch of a docile carpenter?s son. ?I can?t do this.?

Silas scowled at him. ?This isn?t about you.?

Rauno flinched. ?I know, but? if we go in there, we may never come back.? His paws tied and untied into nervous knots, stopping briefly only for him to swipe a paw across his brow. ?Oh, Forest, we never should have come here. We should have??

?Go home, Rauno. I don?t need you anymore.?

Rauno stiffened, twisted paws caught in his shirt. ?W-what??

?You?re big. You scare them. You got me here, and now you need to go.? Silas slid the pack from his shoulders and threw it. It crumpled to the mold-flecked dirt by Rauno?s feet. ?There?s enough in there for the trip back. Tell my mother I?ll return once I?m done.?

Silas didn?t wait for the stunned badger?s reply. He turned, approached the tall opening flaps of the tent, and eyed the rat guard that stood in front.

The rat narrowed his eyes at Silas and crossed his arms. ?What?s a liddle mouse like you doin? ?ere?

[he steps past the rat]

As soon as he entered the tent, his nostrils curled at the stench of [describe the foul of the tent.]

Silas reached for his side, and Wellwisher came free with a clarion cry of metal. Every beast in the tent turned to face him, many drawing their own weapons free [add more.]

?I?m looking for a murderer!? Silas shouted.

Chuckles pattered throughout the tent.

?Well, you?ve come to the right place, lad,? [Name] said, a grin curling across his muzzle.

?A wolverine,? Silas added, expression unflinching. ?His name is [Yname]* the Brutal. He led an attack on [place] before running away like the coward he is. I know that he came here. I?ve come to kill him.?
Tooley comment: Knew I wanted the wolverine's name to start with Y. Often I make odd notes like this before I come up with a final name.

[Laughter. Stoat slaps his knee.]

[Leader stares at him in confusion] ?What?s yer angle, lad? This beast stiff yew outta some candied chestnuts??

Silas tightened his grip around Wellwisher. ?He killed my father.?

?How old are you??

[Silas hesitates, then answers.]

?He ain?t here.?

A twisting chill stabbed up through Silas? back. ?What??

?Went with [the boat that takes people to the Crater.]?

[Silas asks about them.]

?[They take beasts to this fighting ring. Old Yname thought it sounded like a good deal. Went with them willingly. Crazy beasts, trying to even pay them for handing people over, but things are tight enough as it is.]?

[Silas considers this]

?Look, I ain?t got no love for woodlanders, but I draw the line with kits.? [wavs paw] ?Scurry on out of here, and I?ll pretend we never had this conversation.?

?You said they pay you, right??

[looks at him skeptically] ?Ain?t much, but it?s a pretty [sum.]"

?How much??

[Leader considers, then another beast pipes in.] ?They said they?d be back ?fore the season?s end.?

[Leader glares at beast]

?Then it can?t be much longer. You don?t have anything to lose here.?

[Considers, raps fingers against table Shrugs] ?Its yer funeral, lad. I gave you a chance.?

[Silas smiles, feels confidence rush through his veins.]

[Leader leans forward.] ?You know that you can?t kill a wolverine, right??

?Everything can be killed.?


Tooley comment: And, for further study, if you all find it interesting to reverse engineer an author's approach, this was my summary that I followed for the idea.
Mouse enters establishment of some vermin, asking where his father?s murderer is. They?re not from Redwall?some smallish community, but different enough to make sense locally. Finds out there that the [fox] that killed his father signed up for this gladiator ring. For the glory and everything. It?s the sort of place a beast like him would fit in, and not at all where a mouse would be welcome.[/spoiler]

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Beast With a Secret - Ascayir

Story:
[spoiler]Ascayir stood behind the rough-hewn counter, a rag bundled into his black, glossy-scaled fingers. The counter had already been cleaned three times, yet it distracted him from the sound of coins scraping together from the far corner of the bar.

?We don?t have enough,? Dima whispered for the fourth time.

Ascayir looked up, past the empty tables strewn throughout the bar, to where a fair-scaled salamander sat in the dark corner of the bar. Ascayir replied as he always did, ?We will,? and resumed cleaning.

?Not this time,? she said, pressing the few bits of bronze and tin against her smooth forehead. She cradled her other paw across her stomach as she drew in unsteady breaths. ?I just know.?

?We will have enough,? Ascayir said again.

Dima drew in a breath to respond when the door?s canvas rustled.

?A customer!? Dima gasped, standing up from her chair.

?Dima, stop.? Ascayir?s voice rumbled through the quiet bar like thunder. It was a voice meant for places far from bars and merriment and safety, one that Dima had never heard him use, but their newcomer had.

A dormouse stood in the threshold, wearing a strange uniform similar to that of a robe, but with multiple layers of cloth cut to allow freer movement.

?Dima, leave us.?

He kept his attention on the dormouse as Dima?s labored footsteps shuffled into the back room. When the door shut, only the scuff of Ascayir?s rag filled the bar. He focused his attention upon a dark spot of ale staining the counter.

?You?ve taken a wife,? the dormouse said.

Ascayir glanced up with a dark eye. ?Marriage is not forbidden.?

?No, but it is dangerous.?

Ascayir pressed harder into the rag. ?Why have you come, Kezzic??

?He calls us home.? The dormouse took his first step into the bar. ?You must have felt it. How the earth trembles again with His voice.?

Ascayir said nothing.

?The others doubted. They feared you had fallen away, but they don?t know you like I do.? Kezzic stopped at the counter. ?We were all lost when the Drezh died. Even the best of us. We all needed ways to make peace, and this?? Kezzic?s gaze swept the bar. ??this was yours.?

Ascayir checked the stain, then frowned. It remained even despite all his efforts. ?How did you find me??

?He knows all who belong to Him, Ascayir. He can feel their feet wherever they go. It is time to leave behind this lie. These soft beasts do not understand you.?

Ascayir looked into the eyes of Kezzic. He remembered a much younger face, frightened, looking for purpose and stability. He remembered the same in himself. The numbness of fear. The thrill of purpose. And the pain of truth.

?And my wife?? Ascayir asked.

?She will be tested, but is welcome if she passes.? Kezzic held out a paw. ?Now, come.?

Ascayir regarded it. Then, he let out a steady breath of resignation and gripped the paw tightly. Kezzic smiled broadly  ? a hint of a youthful quirkiness long lost.

?The others will be overjoyed that you?? Kezzic flinched, then shook his head. ?I?m sorry, I think the heat of this climate has gotten to me. We? should??

Kezzic?s shoulders spasmed, and he drew in a shuddering, halted breath. He took a step backward, then tripped and collapsed on the floor, beginning to convulse.

?I?m sorry,? Ascayir said. ?I can?t go back.?

He wiped his paw on the rag to clean the remaining poison from where it burned hot along the glands of his scales. Taking a knife, he bent down and pried a section of the floor up. He grabbed a bag twice the size of his fist and pulled it free.

When he stood back up, he found Dima staring in horror.

?What??

?He?s dying,? Ascayir said, walking to her. ?I?m not the beast you think I am, Dima.?

She shifted her horrified gaze to him. He held out the bag.

?Take this. There is enough to find you passage from the continent. Go to the mountain of our ancestors. Spend it all?money has no value there. Ask for a Colonel Tillathyme. He will help provide a future for you and our child.?

Dima blinked. ?I? I don?t understand.?                         

?You were everything I wanted, Dima.? Ascayir pressed his forehead to hers. ?But it had to end.?

He pulled back and started to walk away.

?W-where are you going?? Dima cried, voice slurred with shock.

?Somewhere He can?t find me.?[/spoiler]

Positives: Maybe it's a silly thing, but dang do I love the concept of a fire salamander in Redwall. Those little rotters have poison glands. That's awesome! I also liked the idea of tying Ascayir into the canon, albeit not with Nire, but rather with the Army in the Sight that Nire fears. The idea of a former member of the army that Nire fears the most being right under his nose is a fun one to me.
And the "mountain of our ancestors" is cool. ...sadly, that line alone is probably cooler than all of Ascayir. Salamanders and their relation to Salamandastron is a super intriguing concept.

Flaws: Goodness. All over. This is not the app I wanted to write. While this was one of the very first concepts I came up with, I didn't end up writing it until I literally had an hour and a half left (though I did draft half the scene weeks before). Due to the lack of time, I ended up going off track from what I wanted the character to be, and ended up with a pretty average, meh application. Also, by the end of this, Ascayir has no real desire or want besides "leave me alone." Not compelling in the slightest. And the poison comes out of nowhere. And guhhh I wish I wrote this one better.

Initial Draft: Original inspiration for Ascayir was a typical "Russian immigrant" vibe. The hardened person who is always cold and firm, and while they do care, they just don't know how to show it. Someone who is running from a dark past (where they were this incredibly formidable killer), and they've settled into a completely normal life. Not necessarily because they desire it, or love it, but because it's normal, so they do whatever normal things that normal beasts do. If he got in, I wanted a dialogue to come up between him and one of the cast members, where they would ask if he even loves his wife at all. He'd look at them confused, tell them that she is a very normal beast, and that's all he ever wanted. I also wanted him to be very, very curt with his dialogue. As in, more than four words in a row would be out of the ordinary. Lost that in the final draft.
Overall, a very good example of failing to draft in time to fit the initial vision I had for the character. Not surprised in the slightest he wasn't chosen. Oh, also, his secret? He was the one who killed the Drezh.

As a taste of what I was originally planning (before I asked Zev about the Army in the Sight details), here was my original draft:
[spoiler]?How much?? Ascayir asked.

From the far corner of the bar, tucked where the shadows gathered, came the sound of coins scraping together. Without the speed of practice or joy, the sound continued for several long, drawn out seconds. Fewer seconds than he anticipated.

Ascayir?s attention remained on the counter before him, and on the rag bundled into his black, glossy-scaled fingers. The counter already gleamed with as much polish as its rough-hewn wood would ever allow, but Ascayir continued to make wide, arcing strokes across its surface.  ?How much?? he prompted again.

When several more seconds passed without a reply, Ascayir frowned, glancing for the first time at the slouched form seated in the darkened corner. Dima?s dark eyes rested listless upon the scattered tin and copper on the table.

?I can?t do this.?

[they talk briefly about finances, visitor arrives]

A paw shoved the fabric to the side, revealing a tall, lanky-limbed stoat. Despite the sun-beaten fade to his many-colored outfit, the stoat held himself with a pride that could challenge even the Lords of the North. Muzzle tilted perpetually upwards by several degrees, the stoat surveyed the bar, then revealed all the teeth he had left to boast.

?Yer a hard beast t? find, Asca,? the stoat said, taking a swaggering step into the bar.

?Leave us,? Ascayir said, gesturing Dima away without a look.

He heard the clink of coins sliding back into their pouch, the screech of chair legs sliding back, Dima?s labored footsteps shuffling across the room. She glanced his way as she passed by, but his attention remained solely upon the stoat.

?M?lady,? the stoat offered with a twice-circling flourish of a many-ringed paw.

Shortly, the side door latched shut. When the creak of Dima?s footsteps faded away, the stoat?s smile peeled into a sneer.

?What swamp did ya pick that ?un up from?? The stoat scoffed.?Are ya that desperate??

Ascayir held the stoat?s gaze for a moment ? just long enough to see a twitch in the beast?s brow ? before resuming his cleaning, focusing upon a dark splatter of thick ale staining the countertop.

?Took me a while t? find ya out here,? the stoat said, and Ascayir heard him approaching the bar. ?Cute place. Never woulda pegged ya fer a barkeep.?

Ascayir scowled when, even after several deep strokes, the stain remained. He put more pressure onto the rag? hard enough to feel the grain of wood.

?Odd choice, though. Can?t imagine ya make much.?

Still the smudge remained. Ascayir formed a fist and pressed into the counter hard enough to make it groan.

?Soft folk?re too scared o? yer type, an? the rest?? A pair of paws slapped down onto the counter, claws hooking into the wood. ??well, they recognize yer name.?

Ascayir glared at the paws, then regarded the stoat?s cockeyed grin and twinkling eyes. ?Speak,? he said.

[stoat talks]

?Why are you here, Kezzic??

?Ain?t fer a family reunion, that much I?ll tell ya,? Kezzic said. ?Yer leavin? caused quite a stir. Some o? us miss ya, y?know. A lot more, though, wanna find ya.?

[stoat makes veiled threats]

The stoat turned to leave, and Ascayir moved. [Ascayir grabs him] Ascayir gripped the struggling beast?s arm tighter as the throb of poison ran hot through the glands along his arm. Kezzic screamed and [stumbles back, trying desperately to get the poison off as he begins to convulse.]

Tooley comment: And that's all I wrote initially. Much better tone and character than the final piece. My very first summary/note for Ascayir was this.

Fire salamander. Trying to get away from old life, start anew. Great warrior. Stern. Connection to Nire's fear? Has poisonous blood.[/spoiler]

--- --- --- - --- --- ---

Aaaand that's all. Biggest takeaway from this is definitely to get drafts done earlier, so as to not lose sight of that initial spark and vision for a character. It doesn't come natural, but there's no replacement for letting things sit and then revising them with a fresh mind. These things simply have to take time, and so often, they can't be rushed. Hard lesson for me to learn, but learn it I shall!

[Matra Hammer]

Thanks a million for sharing, Tooley. You've already commented a bit on the how and why of your choices, but I think we could all benefit from hearing your process. We all have different approaches to writing. I like throwing myself at the keyboard as one tries destroying a brick wall with their body - slam, rest and consider, slam, rest and consider, slam.

How about you? What did you do in your step-by-step? More importantly, what would you change? You already mentioned taking your time but let's see a bit of the weasel's process.

[Tooley Bostay]

Good question.

So my step-by-step is to start with a broad concept with one detail that hooks my interest. That detail doesn't need to be stunningly original or anything, just something I'm earnestly interested in. As an example, one of my ideas for an unwritten app was a female hare traveling the world, because she's about to be recruited into the Salamandastron army, and hates the idea of being cooped up. It's simple, but there was enough there to interest me.

Next, I have particular moments pop up in my mind that I find compelling. It could be a string of dialogue, or a particular description of a place, or some action that the character takes that shows their personality. These aren't constructed so much as they just come to me as I develop and think of the character/scene. So, with the hare example, one of these was that she's traveling with a friend from Salamandastron, but she's lied about why she's traveling. So I had some dialogue between the two of them that I wanted to show. Another was that she'd end up bumping into a Lieutenant hare who knows she's run away. Some tension where she's certain he's going to haul her back, but he ends up letting her go, as he thinks not all hares should just be thrown into military service when their heart is still out in the world.

So right there, I have my structure of the scene. Runaway hare, express this information through dialogue with her friend, show her character and love of exploring as they visit some location [thought was it'd be some town], then she bumps into Lieutenant hare. Wuh oh. Conflict and tension arises, but she's let off, albeit now her friend very much suspects something is up.

From there, I just connect the pieces. Think of it like having "tentpoles." I come up with some solid moments that mark the scene/story, then spread out the canvas to connect them and make the "tent."

what would you change?

I think I mentioned what in general I would change. For Silas, don't have the scene be so static and colorless when it comes to revealing his character. For Ascayir, return to that gruffness and hard-edged tone that I initially wanted. What that looks like specifically would come out as I draft it, but those would be my directions.

[Vera Silvertooth]

I did a blog post the other day while waiting for voting to wrap up. I kinda detailed the process I went through with one of my apps and the final app was included at the bottom of the post.

https://elisejtuck.wordpress.com/2017/07/10/creation-of-a-redwall-survivor-application/

[Matra Hammer]

I promised Tooley I'd fess up and post a failed app of mine. This is something I cannot and will not make excuses for. Here's the mess in its entirety free of commentary save the "mess" line.

[spoiler]
Category~ The Beast Driven by Love
Name~ Knight-Captain Lane Harwell
Species~ Mouse
Age~ 37
Gender~ Male

The beasts know all the steps. They bow too low, salute with steel, and orbit around an invisible post only they share. Test swipes cross the expanse between them, but they starve only for the air. The Other hears the Partner's breathing, measured and assured in the face of anything. The Partner admires the Other?s careful stepwork, and how They kick the sand for cover.

The Partner strikes in earnest. High, low, and lower still for a slice of the ankles which dance a step ahead. No effort is enough, and he cannot see the Other through the sand.

"Sir?"

The Other enacts a counter. The Partner can barely keep the blade from his flesh, and already gashes appear along his coat. Every strike is a gift, too shallow for real damage but deep enough so he knows feeling again. Soon the space between them is lost to a whirl of bone and metal, blood and musk.

"They?re here."

Their blades find home, and both crumple onto the sand. Clouds within lifts, and nose to nose they smile as they know sensation once more.

The Partner can almost see the Other, can almost know their face, and-

"Captain, wake up!"

Captain Harwell woke to hedgehog squire kneeling over his cot. Mint and honeysuckle filled the mouse?s tent, but the promise of tea brought no sensation to the seasoned mouse's chest. Neither did the paperwork on his cotside table: a will, an overstuffed travel journal, and a series of murder confessions. All received Knight-Captain Lane Harwell at the bottom in precise script.

"Remember what to do?" said Harwell.

Squire Corbin flinched as he poured the tea, but Harwell patted his arm and helped him summon the courage.

"I...I leave if you don?t return by morning, give your lord the papers, and say ?he?s gone.?"

"Good lad. My hoard is yours if I fall." Harwell accepted the mug and poured one for his squire. "Buy off the council if my confessions fail. Whatever ensures your safety."

Outside the clamor of boots grew until thrown stones bounced off the tent?s sides. Harwell?s banded armor went on fast with practiced paws, and his swords hung oiled and ready at his hip. His trophy trunk contained flags of uncharted lands, shields of bandit rulers, and daggers etched with forgotten runes. Harwell opted for a chartreuse mantle and pawed at the bloodstained collar.

"Sanclair of Southsward." A scimitar was a poor choice for a squirrel, thought Harwell. With all her mobility she should?ve stayed her distance. A lesson They will know. "How many years?"

"Four, sir," said Corbin. "You challenged Sanclair after you pulled me from the sulfur pits."

"Through Southsward and Moss in four years. Let's hope the North yields more."

An arrow tore through the tent?s side and struck the trunk.
 
"Don't go. Please, don't." The mug dribbled in the hedgehog's shaking paws. "We can beg for mercy! I'll say it was all accidents, I will!"

"I'm guilty despite your admiration." Harwell pawed at the mantle and parted the flap. "But it matters not without Them."

Glittering rat fangs, bitter herbs, and mountainous pines undulated from the darkness beyond the tent. A northern horde eager to see the mouse Captain at work blanketed the field. Harwell walked into the brood, and all stayed well back though their taunts and whistles doubled.

"The terms are true." The mouse's voice cannoned across the field, and all fell silent. "The beast that bests me one on one wins the pot and the location of my hoard."

Harwell drew his blades, his breathing measured and assured.

"Come. Who is the best among you?"

The horde pushed forward a bilge rattess laden with piercings and tail rings.

"Crazy as you is famous, ain'tcha." She hefted a club more tree than weapon. "C'mere. I?ve sum luvin? fer ye!"

Harwell knew all the steps. He bowed low, but, to the mouse?s relief, she swung instead of returning the courtesy. A dodge, his swords arced as one, and the rattess crumpled. Harwell lopped off her tail, removed the rings, and threw them in a pile behind him.

A weasel with a Salamandastron barbut climbed over the rat?s body. An unrequited bow, a practiced stroke, and the barbut joined the ring pile. Then a jeweled hilt. Then ever more as challenger after challenger entered the ring.

For each Harwell started with a bow; in each he searched for the Other.
[/spoiler]

[Tooley Bostay]

I wouldn't call it a mess, but I am confused by it. I'm gathering that he fought someone before and felt some sort of special bond with them through the battle, but doesn't know who they are, so he's challenging any and all to find them again? Or maybe he just hopes for such an encounter?

But, really, there's not a lot here to make excuses for. There's a lot of color to the brushstrokes you utilize in your wordplay. Such lines like

Every strike is a gift, too shallow for real damage but deep enough so he knows feeling again.

and

"Mint and honeysuckle filled the mouse?s tent, but the promise of tea brought no sensation to the seasoned mouse's chest."

work wonderfully to key us into Harwell's mind, while still being artfully presented. It does get perhaps a bit too artsy, and could use a bit of grounding. The kicking sand (mercurial and vague nature of the fight already makes it hard to fully understand beyond the emotions in play, so the sand just confused me. Couldn't picture it), the random bit about a squirrel with a scimitar (thought she suddenly appeared in the tent), shaking off the confusion of the scene to finally realize just where Harwell is and what's happening, etc. Nothing dreadful, but stumbling blocks amidst a character with certain promise.

Love the snappy description work, though. The fight with the rattess is all of two sentences. Not only do you not waste our time, but this perfectly reflects Harwell's character. These fights are stupidly easy for him, so this is reflected in how the actual fight is written. It's all over in a flash. Glorious stuff.

So yeah, not sure where you cynicism is coming from. It's a flawed app that's at times confusing, but shows plenty of wonderful authorship, and moreover, I find myself more intrigued by the character the longer I stew on it. A decent app, to be sure.

[Matra Hammer]

Mighty kind of you. It's too easy getting caught up in the cool ideas and high concepts. Next contest I'll try the other side and write a few dozen characters who wake up, bake a loaf of bread, and take a nap. A little control and structure would work in my favor.

And that's much of the reason why I asked you about your approach. Writers hesitate in talking about their rituals, their step-by-step, in part because they're not sure if it's right or wrong. Or, like me, they're embarrassed by the simplicity - slam, rest, slam, rest. So some perspective on this end is as important as actual writing tips.

Reading Elise's approach (detailed in her blog) was extremely baffling for me. Not baffling in the "this is dumb, who would do this?" but in the "This is...woah, I don't have the discipline for this." Maybe I'll try both in time. I smell a writing game on the air...